When I came home from Texas, the first thing I did was revel in the love of my family. The second thing I did was notice that our house smells like the bowels of hell. Now, the MOG did a great job with the kids, but I thought maybe the bathing schedule had gone awry, so I placed children here and there in tubs of scented water. Next I assessed where a diaper could have potentially been misplaced in a frenzy of parenting ecstasy, but I only found all the matches for the shoes I've thrown away. I took out the trash, and then I found the dishes. Problem solved.
The whole time, the MOG is following me around and reminding me that he does this every time he comes home. He travels around and stays in all these swanky houses, and then he comes in and looks around like, "How do we live this way?" which is always super well received by me after parenting 4 kids alone for 2 weeks. And of course, I always respond just like Jesus would, if he weren't sinless.
After I do the dishes and open all the windows and pray a cleansing prayer, it smells okay to me. But the seeds have been sown and I wonder, "Does my house stink? All the time?" I worry about this for several minutes, and then I remember Facebook.
But today, a week later or something, my sister is in town and she's coming over here, and I remember that my house might smell like a meth lab. So I decided to make a little homemade potpourri, with orange peels and honey and boiling water, because, come on. That stuff smells good. It was off to a promising start but then I forgot about it and it boiled dry and caught on fire. So now my house smells like a meth lab next to an burnt and rotting orange orchard (or whatever you call those. orange forest, orange grove. GROVE.)
Domesticity, I own you.